


Angelfucker

by monsterfuckerdean (MushroomDoggo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Coffee, HBO SPN, M/M, Monsterfucking, Oneshot, Queer Themes, Sexuality, Tattoos, hbospn, queer allegories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomDoggo/pseuds/monsterfuckerdean
Summary: Based on a tumblr ask prompt:"About hbo destiel.. At what point does monsterfucker dean stop seeing castiel as just another ‘monster’ to fuck mixed with pushing the limits on how much he can (sometimes literally) fuck with heaven half because he has a death wish half because he hates all concepts of a ‘greater power’. At what point does he start seeing castiel as cas, as something more. At what point does cas stop seeing dean as just another way to rebel against heaven and stop using the excuse of his curious fascination with humanity as a whole. At what point does cas start seeing the human as dean, as something more." - anonymous
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: HBO Supernatural





	Angelfucker

Try as he might, Dean had not been able to reach the angel in the dirty trench coat.

It fucked with him a little. Like he was off his game, y’know? How many times had he managed to vent his own self-hatred through angry sex with a monster? How many times had he proved to himself that only a monster could even want him?

And yet, if he was honest, Castiel was in a different category entirely. A monster, yes-- well. Maybe.

But an angel?

That meant something else, didn’t it? It was no longer about anger and hatred and proof of the unclean. This was something holy.

If the angel wanted him, then it couldn’t be about hunger. It couldn’t be about conquest. It wasn’t primal or hateful or dirty.

And so Dean played his little games. He would tease, he would dance about the angel, trying desperately to reveal the monstrosity of heaven so he could fall back into his old habits. He would get rough, knowing that this meant nothing to a being so high and holy, yet hoping that Castiel would lash out at him. He would keep himself close. He would be rebellious.

Castiel would eventually either fuck him or kill him, and, franky, either would work.

But Cas never did.

Oh, he showed his monstrosity. Dean saw things no mortal should see--such violence, such eldritch horror beyond imagining--but never once did Castiel point it towards Dean.

There were little things. A smack of the wrist here, a shove on the chest there. Little reminders that Dean should keep his distance, that playing this game with an angel was unwise at best and a request for death at worst.

But Dean kept on.

And so did Cas.

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment when the dynamic changed. Maybe there wasn’t a single moment, but rather many moments that all snowballed together. Maybe… maybe it was just one long moment, especially to an angel. One long inhale. One blink in the grand scheme of the universe.

But one morning, while Dean was getting dressed, Castiel made coffee.

He did it without asking, and he did it without help. He used the little coffee pot in the motel room when he probably could have conjured some up in his hand with no trouble at all.

Dean pulled his shirt down over his head and watched silently as Cas measured out each scoop of grounds. “Are you making coffee?”

Castiel did not pause. “Yes.”

Dean ambled towards the angel. “Why? You don’t drink coffee.”

“But you do,” Castiel pointed out. “I’ve watched you do it many times, now.”

Dean squinted. “And?”

Cas clicked the basket into its housing. “And you always make coffee on mornings when you’re awake before seven. And when there’s a greater than fifty percent chance of rain. And when it’s less than sixty-five degrees.”

“I… do?”

“Yes.” Castiel pressed the button to begin the brewing process, then turned to look at Dean. “Were you not doing it on purpose?”

The coffee pot began to whir.

Dean blinked. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

“It’s part of your routine,” Cas said.

“And you know my routine?”

“Yes,” Castiel cocked his head. “Of course I do.”

Dean folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, yeah?” He turned and leaned back against the side table which held the coffee pot. “What else do I do?”

Castiel squinted. His thoughtful squint, Dean noted.

“You use too much pressure when you put the key in the ignition, but too little when you start it,” Cas said.

Dean smirked. He nodded for Castiel to continue.

Cas held his chin up, ever so slightly. “You like cotton t-shirts. And cheeseburgers, especially with pickles,” he continued. “You read in the evening. It takes you about two weeks to finish a book, and you always leave notes in the margins for whoever reads it next.”

He paused here.

The coffee maker rumbled along, water dripping steadily into the pot below.

Dean crossed one foot over the other. He did not break eye contact with the angel, even as the morning sun passed behind his head, shooting yellow streaks of light in every direction.

“Well?” Dean coughed. “I’m listenin’. There’s gotta be more.”

Castiel pouted slightly, and his gaze drifted from Dean’s face to his arm. He took a small breath. “Your tattoos.”

He stopped there.

“Yeah?” Dean prompted. “What about ‘em?”

Cas sighed, almost in frustration. “You hate them.”

Dean’s hands seized, and he gripped his own arms quite tightly.

Cas looked back up at Dean’s face. “You get tattoos to take ownership,” he explained, “but never to improve. You want to ruin yourself.”

Though Dean did not move, the tattoo sleeves on his arms seemed to swim in his peripheral.

The coffee maker spluttered to a halt.

Dean chuckled unconvincingly. “N-no,” he said. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Cas replied.

“I get tattoos because I’m a grown fuckin’ man,” Dean said.

“You get tattoos because you wish to mark your body as yours,” Cas explained. He moved in towards the coffee pot, and began to pour some into a paper cup. “And not from nothing. You’re taking it back from your father.”

Castiel continued to dress the coffee--a little bit of sugar, a little bit of milk, just how Dean liked it--without looking up. As if he hadn’t just psychoanalyzed Dean with incredible accuracy.

Dean scoffed and shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He pushed off the table, intending to end the conversation there.

Castiel caught his arm.

Dean turned, opened his mouth to speak, and was stopped when Cas put a cup of coffee into his hand.

“I do, actually,” Cas said. “You might say that taking one’s body back from their father is an angelic rite of passage.”

From where Dean stood, with the morning sun rising behind him, he may have looked quite angelic.

Castiel tilted his chin upwards. “It can be about more than just your father,” he said. “It should be about you.”

If Dean was honest, the only tattoo he really loved was the handprint on his shoulder.


End file.
